


All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience

by TianKen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubious Science, Personality Typing, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:44:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2162802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TianKen/pseuds/TianKen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The British government is interested in you. Are you interested in us?”</p>
<p>Or: In a world in which every person is classified by their personalities, and thus their capabilities, Mycroft Holmes is ominously unique, his parents are supportive of what he does, and his younger brother is a (lovingly adorable) brat about his life choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience

**Author's Note:**

> AU If Jung's and Myers-Briggs' research was actually valid, taken to science fiction extremes, and existed within the world of Mycroft Holmes. 
> 
> See end for more notes.

_January 7th, 1987_

(Mycroft, Age 18)

 

Mycroft Holmes examined the taskmaster before him and wondered, for the briefest moment, how quickly this day would be over with. He had expected more of a challenge, especially considering that the consequences of this assessment was a lifelong label that would likely not change. But, he supposed, when it also carried the title “National,” it was not designed to deal with the special, special cases.

Like him.

Still, he managed a modicum of decorum as he dutifully attended each assessment session, housed in a large grey stone building in Greater London emblazoned with the words “Department of National Assessment.” He and approximately five hundred other young adults spent approximately a week being shuffled in from room to room, given tasks and evaluated based on performance. Mycroft had gotten bored rather quickly; his sole amusement laid in watching the terror and flailing of many of his peers as they struggled. It rather reminded him of a tank of spilled goldfish.

In contrast to the tasks of the prior several days, this one was held in a small room, without the presence of outsiders. Mycroft had sat patiently in the uncomfortable plastic chair, quietly observing the sparsely decorated grey room, wondering what menial task they would deign to present themselves with next. For a brief second, he allowed himself a hope that it would be something interesting.

No sooner had he considered the idea, did a portly bearded man shuffle into the room, closing the door crisply behind him. Mycroft rose up in his seat, running his eyes over his next taskmaker before quickly meeting him in the eye. A quick handshake later, the two took to their seats: Mycroft in his uncomfortable plastic chair and the old man take his across a wooden table.

As he absently engaged in social niceties, Information -visual clues, to be precise- flew through his mind, each neatly filtering themselves into relevant information: sweaty palms, fixed smile, decent suit but subpar tailoring, crumbs on his lapel, mused cuff, tissues in pocket. Mid forties, average mental capacity, emotionally weak, in a position of authority but weak thus feels a need to overcompensate.

In short, another goldfish.

He clearly had too high of hopes.

“Mycroft Holmes. My name is Franklyn Froideveaux, and I am here to interview you.”

 

~ **~** ~

 

In the beginning of the 20th century, psychology’s fascination of human personality had resulted in a reinvention of the concept of human capacity through psychometrics.

Carl Jung’s initial research presented an idea that all humans possessed polarities in their personality. The first documented of this is what he called introversion or extroversion: one’s tendency to view the world internally, or view the world externally. As he continued, he and his colleagues noted other polarities that existed: thought and action, assessment or judgement. More importantly, such extremes could not only be qualitatively noticed, but quantitatively assessed, leading to his assignment of individuals based on their combination of polarities.

It was an idea originally thought useless: each person could be branded with a series of four letters that declared their “type,” but there appeared to be no feasible application for such labels. Further research, however, suggested that people of certain types preferred and excelled in minute areas of human capacity: art, science, thought, experimentation, etc. They had preferred methods of action, learning, and interactions, all equally predictable by their “type.”

Thus, a new field, of science and application was born: psychometrics. So far, it produced four umbrella types of people: Artisans, Guardians, Idealists and Rationales.

His research was primarily in adults; children were deemed too malleable to produce definitive results. It was Jean Piaget’s studies on child development that ushered in the idea of stages: children developed their lifelong personalities in predictable periods of maturation, thus it would be simple to assess them at such “marker” periods to determine their future capabilities.

The combined result was a scientist’s dream: a clear label on every individual. It was an educator’s dream: a clear outline of how to teach each child. It was an economist’s dream: a way of maximizing every individual’s capacity for work. And it was a government’s dream: their population, working in peace.

The “National Assessment Test” was born from their efforts, aiming to properly classify each and every member of a nation’s population that was capable of being tested. It came with minimal protest: the research was solid, the classifications were broad enough that people were not capable of forming prejudices, and the benefits were apparent. Sweden had been the first country to implement such an assessment, and experienced a noticeable increase in both economic growth and national education within five years. Interestingly enough, the country also dropped out of the top ten most depressed countries. Other western countries hurried to follow the Swede’s lead.

 

~ **~** ~

 

For his part, Mycroft could only wonder why the original test makers had not considered a less tedious method of assessing people. He could only assume that it was because they were scientists, and thus, appreciated thorough repetition and lack of visual stimuli. Perhaps also because they were sadists that enjoyed the knowledge that their reality would be the general population’s, if only for a week.

The day before consisted of logic puzzles that he solved within minutes of administration. He submitted his results to that particular taskmaster -watching with amusement as her jaw unhinge, before sharply snapping up- before being released back into the waiting area. Because there was at least an hour before the end of the task, Mycroft was given special permission to wander in the designated non-testing hallways to relax. He discovered the library, which he spent a little while browsing. Finding it a tad bit subpar, especially compared to the Holmes library of his childhood, he ventured out again and encountered the taskmaster break room. By the time he returned for the end of the puzzle task, Mycroft was a full cake heavier and considerably more pleased.

He supposed it was better than the day before that, which consisted of a day long book assessment that was designed for intentional infuriation and worry. The material was all exceedingly high level, and the room was filled with stern men, dressed in dark navy red uniforms with black clipboards. Most would suspect they were to prevent cheating, but Mycroft knew they were to observe the cognitive ability of each student, and their capacity to handle unfamiliar material. Unfortunately for them, the elder son of Siger and Violet Holmes possessed higher mental capacity than every being in the room, thus effortlessly completed the exam with enough time to deduce the life stories of each person in the exam hall from their trouser pants and shoes.

Mycroft strongly suspected today would be just as tediously boring as the last few days. The presence of the portly bearded man with the clipboard before him was only reassuring him of his assessment: “Your pet is ill, you're moving to a new house, and things are crazy at work. How do you feel?”

How did Sherlock like to phrase it? _Dull_.

By the end of the interview, he was quite certain that he made Franklyn cry from frustration. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care.

 

~ **~** ~

 

A woman, cold and foreboding, stepped into the room and assessed him. “Mycroft Holmes,” she stated, every syllable factual, crisp and precise. She carried herself with the air of a woman made of steel: her brunette hair cut in a sharp bob, form clad in a dress of grey, eyes glinting blue and grey in the fluorescent light of the room. Every inch of her was geared for business.

Mycroft stood up, back straightening as if for battle, and offered his hand. “Greetings, madam.”

They shook, each assessing each other. As Mycroft looked the woman in the eye, visual clues and deductions flashed through his mind -middle aged, married, never had children, career woman, fond of dogs- all things his younger brother could have assessed within seconds of her presence. Most importantly, lying beneath the superficial, he found a similar intellect. It was as if he stared into a mirror: a veneer of socially nice politeness that masked the coil of sharp, viper-like calculation. Mycroft may have been assessing her for information, but she was looking for confirmation. Of what, he didn't know.

They parted hands. “You are a Rational,” the iron woman informed.

They both knew he knew.

He tilted his head and nodded politely. “Thank you.”

Before he could continue, she continued, circling him at an even pace, arms behind her back, eyes assessing his every movement. For a moment, Mycroft felt like a trapped animal, examined by a zookeeper. “The highest scores of cognitive ability we have seen so far; potentially one of the highest on record. Levels of working memory, judgment, evaluation, comprehension, problem solving and decision making equally high, equally on par. Genius level.”

By words, they were compliments. By intention, they seemed like a challenge. Mycroft didn't rise to the bait, didn't even bat an eyelash. She seemed pleased.

“Interestingly, you display normal capacity for social interaction. Of the four comparable individuals in the past, you alone are ‘balanced.’ Stable, actually. You,” she stopped before him, “are quite the anomaly.”

Grey eyes met grey eyes. “Thank you.”

“You are in a unique position in that you are capable of specializing in anything a Rational demonstrates elevated capacity for, particularly politics, pure sciences and engineering. The question is, which you are interested in pursuing.”

“Madam, you voice it as if you are giving me an option.”

Her eyes were steel, sharp and fierce in intensity. Mycroft met her gaze easily. Like minds recognized like minds.

She could see potential in him, true potential. The kind of potential that demanded constant challenge, for fear of atrophy and decay. The kind of potential that could set the world on fire, as much as it could rebuild it from the ashes. The kind of potential that must be controlled, or the fire would never stop burning.

In her, he could see either his triumph or his downfall.

“The British government is interested in you. Are you interested in us?”

 

~ **~** ~

 

When he returned to the manor, Mycroft was met at the door with a curly dark haired whirlwind that slammed against his lower body, spouting rapid fire questions, deductions and comments in no particular order. The elder boy sighed, a sound of bemused patience, ruffling his little brother’s curls.

“Mycroft!” he snapped, glancing up with a childishly adorable glare, “you didn’t answer any of my questions. What was testing like? How many stupid tasks did they put you through? How fast did you finish them? Did you even bother getting out of your seat the entire time? Did you make any of them cry?”

“Sherly, let your brother go,” gently ordered Mummy. Sherlock pouted, both at the lack of answers and the use of his childish nickname, but conceded to letting his brother’s right trouser pant go. The look on his face ensured that their conversation would not end here.

Mummy glided over to her eldest son, all grace and elegance personified. He stood silently as the dark haired woman softly adjusted his collar and flattened the lapel of his jacket, before brushing over the grey emblem pinned to the front of his jacket. “As expected,” she stated, meeting her son’s eye with a soft look in her grey eyes. Eyes that Mycroft inherited in fact, although the rest of himself - in both form and demeanor- came from the tawny haired man making his way toward the front door.

“Nothing less from a Holmes,” added Father, who stepped down the stairs to greet his family. Sherlock immediately rushed over, tugging his trouser leg.

“Father! I think Mycroft made a task master cry.” The eight year old began listing the reasons why, which his father listened to with the amusement of any parent appeasing their child, Mycroft allowed a small smile of pride: Sherlock was improving in his deductions.

Mummy sighed with a tone of long-suffering, before gently guiding the family to the dining room. The elder son sat down, eager anticipation welling up as he spotted his favorite dishes filling the table.

“-Aaaand, Father, you know the taskmasters are all stupid, so clearly Mycroft would be better than all of them!” ended Sherlock, a look of triumph on his face.

“Sherlock, that’s not a polite thing to say about people,” chided Violet, scooping vegetables onto her youngest son’s plate. Typically, Sherlock refused to eat any more than he believed was necessary -”I have more interesting things to _do_!”- thus Mummy always filled his plate for him during family dinners and kept an eye on its status until everything was gone. When he was being particularly good, namely not using her curtains for flammable experiments nor terrorizing the new music tutor, she would pretend he wasn't sneaking food onto Mycroft's plate.

Before the young boy could respond, Siger asked, “And what career recommendations did you receive?”

“Politics. I have been offered an entrance role in the British government upon completion of necessary political courses in university. I assured them that it would all be completed within the year,” answered Mycroft. Both his parents nodded, pride in their eyes.

“A year in Oxford or two would be good for you, Mycroft. You’ll like it there,” stated Siger, reminiscing of his alma mater.

“Or Cambridge,” interrupted Violet, a smile on her face as she noted her own.

Siger and Violet Holmes were both Rationals, both involved in politics to varying degrees and in varying time points of their lives. Both had hands in the official implementation of the National Assessment Test: Violet in particular was on the original team that assessed the validity of the test in England, while Siger pulled the necessary political strings to get the official approval.

As expected, their offspring were both Rationals, clear from the very beginning. Mycroft had learned to adjust his behaviors based on that of those taking care of him since his toddling stages: his eyes were always owl-like as they tracked movement around him, quiet and always observing. He was always keen to learn, attention darting to new experiences like new toys, while swiftly ignoring the old. His knowledge was vast from a young age, though he usually used it to obtain extra sweets and manipulate his nannies into carrying him instead of having to walk himself.

Sherlock, on his part, had been and still remained a whirlwind of curiosity since he took his first steps, assessing and experimenting anything and everything in his path. New toys or objects were subject to dismantling and reassembling; old things were recycled to assist in such endeavors. Everything from their garden had made it into Sherlock’s bedroom at some point. The family and staff had long accepted his eccentric personality and adapted to a particularly strong brand of bleach as a result. The Holmes family tailor was always on hand at a moment’s notice, as was the Holmes family physician, particularly when the youngest of the family decided on another outdoor adventure.

In short, Siger and Violet Holmes had known from their childhoods that their sons were born Rationals, and born brilliant. Such creatures of logic and knowledge were only suited for careers that reflected: science or politics. It didn't take much to know which son would fall under which umbrella.

Sherlock, predictably, scrunched up his nose. “Politics is boring.” The dissected toad in his room was vastly more interesting than the Machiavelli drivel his brother insisted on reading. But, as long as Mycroft kept on teaching him new things, he wouldn't use any of Mycroft's possessions as objects of his next experiment.

At least that he would be aware of and care about.

 

~ **~** ~

 

“I am grateful for your offer, but I must respectfully decline,” stated Mycroft evenly.

The woman paused and assessed him. “I assure you that this offer will be the best offer you will receive.” She was correct; it was undoubtedly the best offer that anyone of this testing cycle will receive in terms of prestige, challenge and compensation.

“I am aware.”

“And you stated your interest in the British government.”

“I am also aware.”

“Then why are you declining?”

“Because I would be ill suited for M16.”

On paper, Mycroft Holmes was the ideal candidate: genius level intelligence, observation and reasoning. His persona was easily transient between unnoticeable to dangerous; his temper was even; his patience glacial; his reflexes sharp. His parents were well known among British elite, but not enough to be considerably within the public eye. Yet, he possessed the knowledge of the upper crust, but simultaneously did not crave attention. He blended in daylight among the common folk; he worked best dealing in the shadows. In short, he had the potential to be one of the best.

He imagined that, if this conversation had taken place within the Holmes manor, in the presence of both his parents and his family, the following would play out:

     Mummy, with warm eyes: “It’s your decision, Mycroft. We would be supportive of whatever you would like. Just remember to phone in occasionally, dear.”

     Father, proudly patting his son on the back: “Just like a Holmes, my boy. So, so proud of you. But you’ll do well in whatever.”

But the one opinion that mattered the most was also the one who would ring most true.

Sherlock would stare at the woman blankly before laughing like the child he was. He’d fall over himself and roll on the carpet, much to the amusement of his family and the shock of the steel-spined woman. Mummy would gently chide his manners, lovingly lift him up, dust off his grey trousers, then place him back in his seat. Father gave him a stern look that promised a talking-to later, followed by a punishment of no microscope privileges for a week (one that Sherlock would inevitably weasel out of by pouting hard enough). Mycroft would unconsciously mimic his father, but lovingly ruffle his younger brother’s hair when no one was looking because it would be one of the few times that Sherlock would ever act his age.

     Sherlock would hiccup and wipe tears from his eyes. “Mycroft? M16? What would he do? Steal cake recipes from Buckingham Palace?”

And so Mycroft Holmes respectfully declined the woman’s offer. It would require far too much legwork.

 

~ **~** ~

 

Two years of university later at Oxford, Mycroft began his position at the lowest level of common office as a public servant: an assistant. In fact, even as he ascended the levels of government, he always remained on paper as “assistant.”

Personally, he preferred it. From that position, he could form alliances and pull strings without anyone being the wiser. There was a man in front of him that could readily take the fall, and an office of people behind him that served as unwitting servants to his gentle handling. There was information at his fingertips, either in transit to and from his boss, or whispered as gossip in the halls.

And so Mycroft ascended the levels of British government as an assistant to some person or another, until he reached the highest levels available on public record. There was nowhere high to ascend, unless he wanted to foray into the challenge of a more public persona.

Yet, that was not his personality, not his _type_. For a moment, the conversation he had two decades ago with the hardened woman in that distant grey room came to mind: a challenge to suit him, a job invented for shadow play.

But he always did hate to be proven wrong, so he considered.

If there was no role where we would fit in, he would simply have to craft it himself.

 

~ **~** ~

 

“Ah, Mycroft. I see you have made quite a name for yourself,” a steel coated voice noted. A figure stood at the door, rounded from age but still sharp in personality. Her hair wasn't brunette anymore, but grey. Her manner of dress just as dark as before, but covered more skin (scars). Her face was weathered from years of stress and hard decisions made in the name of nationalism, but her eyes remained as grey and hard as ever.

“Hard work, patience and being in the right place at the right time,” he smiled, motioning for the woman to settle in the seat before him.

She complied, eyes glancing over the humble office before meeting Mycroft’s all-seeing gaze. “Quite a bit of each, yes.”

Their conversation was pleasant enough, going over typical numbers and rehashing plans made for the future. The necessities of their positions, both knew. In another time, and another place, they would both ponder that their encounter was vaguely reminiscent of a similar encounter nearly three decades ago: in a grey office far more sparely decorated than the one they currently occupied, with a rickety old oaken desk that was a far cry from the dark mahogany of their current time.

But that's for later. Right now is a matter of two professionals, plotting the way of world over noon tea, determined that everything goes to plan.

As the meeting drew to a close, the two rose from their seats and clasped hands. She neared the door, glanced back and smirked. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Mycroft Holmes. M16 wouldn’t have suited you.”

Mycroft tilted his head and nodded. M16 would have benefited from his presence, certainly, but it was not his calling. “I would agree.”

“Your game of shadow play. It is appreciated.” She was very nearly ousted from her position after the last M16 debacle, but _certain_ people had had changes of heart prior to the official inquiry. The public dressing down was not gentle, but she was allowed to remain in her office.

The Holmes allowed a small polite smile. “Merely aiding old acquaintances. It’s good to see you again, M.”

“Good to see you too, Undersecretary to the Prime Minister.”

 

The title ‘He who ruled Britain,’ was best left unsaid.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> -pops head up- I hope that was entertaining, and I am not a goldfish.
> 
> I based the typing on the general four types from the Keirsey Temperament Sorter. If anyone is interested, and I find reasonable amount of inspiration, I'll write more about this universe.
> 
> P.S. Did anyone catch a reference from a certain other show? :)


End file.
